


saturated (the silhouette of you)

by rustyshiv



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bathing, Established Relationship (of sorts), Fluff, M/M, Massage, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1406929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustyshiv/pseuds/rustyshiv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Q, what are you doing?"</p><p>"I'm worshipping you, James Bond."</p>
            </blockquote>





	saturated (the silhouette of you)

**Author's Note:**

> It's a damn miracle; I wrote fluff. 
> 
> However, don't get used to said fluff writing. I don't actually _remember_ writing this, I was that drunk. 
> 
> James Bond and company do not belong to me.

The aeroplane he was in smelled like gunpowder and iron and it tasted like stale water and too many nights staying up. 

It took Bond a moment to realise it wasn't the aeroplane; it was him.

He sighed, exhausted and tetchy. Usually, he was always left with a post-mission bout of adrenaline and energy and explosive magnetism that was solved by alcohol or a night with a nameless face. 

But not this time. He was truly exhausted, past the point of pretending that his body wasn't screaming at him for the pain and the exertion he was putting himself through. He was older, nearing an age where his muscles had to work double for any small thing. 

The air hostess, a pretty blonde thing with bright brown eyes asked if the sir wanted another martini. He would've tried flirting with her, maybe, but his heart just wasn't in it. Bond declined, on the pretence that he was going to sleep, which made her excuse herself to go fetch him a pillow. The truth was the martini was a vile thing. He sucked down more airline peanuts and tried not to fidget. 

He just wanted to go home. The hostess handed him the slate grey, itchy blanket and the thin white pillow. Bond tried to thank her, but it came out flat. She smiled with pity. 

"Scared of flying?" She asked. Bond tensed. He probably flew more in two years of his life than she had in her entire short years. 

She smiled. "It's okay, we're almost there."  
Why was she still talking? Bond couldn't muster the strength to tell her to leave, let alone flirt. He just wanted solitude at the moment. 

She left after a kindly meant pat on his shoulder and Bond tried to relax without much success. 

::

MI6 at three in the morning was calm, and quiet, and almost empty. There were the occasional employees pulling night shifts or janitors and guards patrolling the corridors.  
Bond was grateful for the silence. He wasn't exactly sure why he even came here; he usually just went home and debriefed in the morning. But the comforting and familiar drone of MI6 vents and the echoing of Bond's steps helped center him after a fortnight of being swept up in espionage and blood. 

He was home. He was finally home. If Bond could, he was avoiding Borneo for _years_.

His trek through the familiar smelling corridors led him to Q-Branch, and yet he couldn't actually remember making the trip down there.

But now that he was here, he wouldn't mind dropping off his equipment and debriefing with Q, if he was there. He probably was; the boy worked himself to the ground. 

Entering Q-Branch, he blinked at the bright fluorescent lights and looked around. There were about twenty people total, spread throughout the room. The Q-Branch night shift techies. 

But no Q. 

Bond walked towards the center desks, seeing a familiar face in R. For a moment, she looked up at him blankly, then widened her eyes. 

"Agent 007," she breathed. "Welcome back. We weren't expecting you." She sounded apologetic as she turned to the computer with haste, probably searching for an explanation as to how they could've made such a grievous mistake as to not know he was on his way home. 

He quirked a lip. "It was my fault, I didn't check in once touching base in London." Any other time he would've smirked at her incredulous look at his admission. "I'm back," he offered instead, placing his gun on the table. 

She hummed in pleasure. "Q will be pleased you brought back his gun." Her look turned knowing. "But only the gun, I presume?"

"Speaking of the kid," Bond asked casually. "Where is he? I thought he practically lived down here."

"We all need sleep, 007. He left early, a couple of hours ago. I assume he left for home. I'll let him know when he comes in tomorrow that you're back." It was a clear dismissal, complete with her turning her attention back to the computer and giving him a professional cold shoulder. Bond could appreciate her for that; of the few women in MI6 that could deflect his flirtation or mindless banter with nothing but a professional air, R was the best. 

He said, "Have a good night, R."

"Or early morning," she replied jovially.

::

Due to the hour, Bond had to take his own car to his flat. He would prefer for the Aston to stay in the underground MI6 carpark for safety against car thieves, but there were no cabs running casually at three in the morning.

The streets were empty except for the one random car that passed him by, and the silence and repetition of driving lulled him almost to sleep. He probably wouldn't report to MI6 tomorrow; staying in bed seemed infinitely better.

It was incredibly telling of how enervated he was that he did not notice there was music playing in his flat until he was taking off his shoes in the foyer. 

He wanted to curse, or scream, and for a humiliating half second, he considered crying of frustration. He just wanted _sleep_ , goddamn it. 

But he took out his personal gun and cocked it, holding it stiff in front of him as he walked into his sitting room. 

The room was bathed in the dim light of his side table lamps, and warmed by the gas fire crackling gently. 

Q was sitting at a keyboard, hunched over in concentration with his brow furrowed. He was playing with utmost single mindedness, but the music was soft and low; he wasn't banging on the keys, even on the crescendos even Bond could distinguish. 

There was a glass of wine near him, along with a pink covered book of what Bond thought was Neruda poetry. 

Bond didn't own a keyboard. Or poetry. Or wine, for that matter.

However, he watched Q's fingers dance across the black and white keys with an ease that came from years and years of practice, effortlessly gliding between minor and major notes, in silence. 

"Pärt's _Frates for Cello and Piano_ ," Q said suddenly, looking up yet never stopping his playing. "I haven't a cello, but I made do. It's one of my favourite pieces, so intensely melancholy, with just the right hints here and there of something akin to hope." He took in the gun, and the tense stance and twisted his happy homecoming grin into a sardonic smirk. "Welcome home," he added dryly, raising an eyebrow at the gun.

Bond was beyond confused, and fuzzy from bone deep weariness, so he asked the most unimportant question: "What kind of wine is that?" 

He probably should have been asking why Q was reading poetry at three in the morning, or how he got a keyboard in his flat, or how he knew Bond was going to be here, or what he was doing here at all, but he couldn't think straight.

Q stopped playing, looked at the wine, and answered, "2006 Riesling. _Not_ my favourite, weak year, and it's a cheap brand from Tesco that cost me nine pounds because you are a scotch connoisseur who hasn't learned yet what wine is, apparently, and this is what I had time and money for. I don't much prefer scotch."

Bond sighed. He stood there, gun loosely held in one hand, and stared at the floor beneath his feet, suddenly lost. He heard Q move and tensed in reflex; he was still under the fight or flight reflex of his mission, however sluggish the fight may be. 

Q noticed, and slowed down in his approach until he was standing directly in front of Bond. With a gentle sigh, Q took the hand holding the gun in his and pried the fingers from it, before clicking the safety on and tossing it on the sofa. 

"I'll tell you a secret," Q whispered in his clicked, posh tones. Come to think of it, Q hadn't raised his voice beyond a low murmur this whole time. Bond was grateful; there was a minor throbbing in his temples from the jet lag. 

"Oh?"

Q hummed. "But later, not right now. It has to do with a revelation I had while you were gone." Q's voice was breathy and he smelled like his shower soap and wine and something musky and warm. 

He brought his hands up to Bond's shirt buttons and rolled one between his fingers before starting to unbutton them. Bond quickly grabbed his wrists, gentle but insistent. Mindful even now of the man's carpal tunnel. Q looked up at him through his fringe with a confused look. "Q, if it's all the same to you, I just want sleep."

They had done this several times. Sex. It was more of a friendship with benefits, a flirtation, as Bond and Q had fallen into a routine of lunch in Q's office and delivering coffee in the morning from Bond's favourite coffee shop and impromptu biscuits showing up in Bond's cubicle of an office, along with a surge of gadgetry Bond was privileged enough to test out in the field. It was all rather sweet, until they got to the bedroom. Sex for them was always rough, seemingly never making it past the sitting room. 

Now, Q furrowed his brow almost angrily. "What kind of person- I can't believe- no, sod this, come with me."

Bond raised an eyebrow when Q grabbed his hand and led him to the bedroom, but didn't put up much of a protest. Until Q reached for his shirt again. "Q-"

"Shut up, Bond. Of course I'm not going to ravish you now; you can barely stand. You're taking a bath."

"A… bath? Are you serious?"

Q frowned. "Very."

There were weirder things, but Bond was tired. A bath didn't seem necessary at the moment. "Q…"

"Indulge me." Q set his hands on Bond's shoulders and squeezed lightly, quirking his lip in a small smile. He lowered his voice to a whisper, "Indulge me."

He was looking at Bond with _that_ smile. The one that Bond couldn't say no to. It dimpled his right cheek and brightened his eyes with something mischievous and playful, and made him look altogether warm. Where MI6's Quartermaster was all cold tones, bland dismissals, raised eyebrow and smirking lip, this one was soft smiles, poetry with wine, bubble baths, and gentle words. So he nodded, and let go of the man's wrists. 

Q pecked his lips in gratitude once, twice. On his lower lip and then his upper lip, bumping noses as he unbuttoned the third button. When he reached the fifth, he moved to nuzzle Bond's jaw and ear, before moving back to his lips and giving soft pecks like a bird on his chin and the tip of his nose. 

"Q, what are you doing?" Bond asked, amused despite himself. 

Q ran his hands down Bond's bare chest, cradled by the open shirt, and leaned back to watch the progress with wide eyes. His fingers found Bond's nipples and rubbed gently with his thumbs, before tracing every rib and scar. He frowned almost sadly at the longer, more jagged ones. Tracing one right above his fifth rib on the right, he murmured, "Monte Carlo," before leaning in to kiss it reverently. He pressed lightly to one on the other side of his appendectomy, creating a practically mirror image. He whispered against his skin, "Sierra Leone," before crouching lower and brushing his open mouth to the scar. He smiled indulgently at the apendectomy and pecked it fleetingly. "You're old hat," he murmured against it good-naturedly. 

Q straightened and walked around Bond, to where a jagged line stretched from lower back to left kidney. Q sucked a kiss on there before breathing, "Naples," and leaving a series of kisses up Bond's spine and around to his right shoulder. There, he lathed attention to the bullet wound and the surrounding self-made scar from digging out fragments. His kisses had an almost ferocious edge to them in this particular spot, Q having to reach and hold Bond's body for balance as he sucked and bit. 

Bond couldn't help but cradle the back of his head, murmuring soft consoling nothings as Q all but whimpered, stopping as quickly as he had begun. Finally, with a husky, wrecked whisper and a jagged exhalation, he let out, "Istanbul."

There was a moment of silence as Q composed himself again, before turning to face him completely and kissing him with intense, carnal need. 

Bond cradled Q's face in between his hands and allowed Q to lick into his mouth with such purpose Bond thought he was counting every tooth. 

Something had changed; some tone they had set before of fast and quick and emotionless turned around and became this sensual, lustful, slow dance. Bond felt fire in his veins and a pleasant buzzing in his head, attributed to exhaustion, maybe, and lazy arousal.

Q suckled on his tongue gently, practically mimicking fellatio, and bit his bottom lip before pulling off. He was misty eyed and smiling softly, normally red lips almost violet with the blood rush of a good kissing. Q brought his hands back to Bond's shirt and took it off entirely, sucking in a breath. 

He made eye contact with Bond and grinned, so brightly it almost blinded Bond.  
He stepped impossibly closer and said, "I'm _worshipping_ you, James Bond."

Bond blinked, trying to remember his previous question. That was… different, more different than anything they'd already done. They'd never been tender in bed, always roughhousing it and leaving the encounter breathless and panting, marked and bruised in private places. Taking it as the unexpected (and deliciously new) side of Q previously hidden, Bond nodded decisively once, allowing Q one last kiss before he moved back to undressing him with the same unhurried patience of a man worshipping his body. 

Q ran his hands down Bond's shoulders, to his neck, and back to lightly bring his hands up to inspect the scarred knuckles. Tutting, he gently kissed each one, moving to the scratches on his forearm. He kissed up one arm to the shoulder, little dry pecks or open mouthed kisses on scrapes and scars or unmarked flesh, until he got to the side of Bond's neck, where he nuzzled lightly with soft sighs of contentment. He did the same with the other side, arms wrapped gently around Bond's waist, playing with the waist of his trousers. He gave Bond a small suckling kiss against his shoulder before pushing Bond to the bed. "Sit," he ordered. "I don't want you collapsing from exhaustion."

"Now you're getting that?" Bond quipped, but obeyed, gratefully sinking down on the mattress with a groan. 

Q smirked at him, and let out something suspiciously like, "cheeky," before running to the bathroom. 

He heard Q turn on the bathtub tap, a humongous copper, ball and clawed thing Bond bought on impulse and never used. 

That is, until now, with Q's apparently hidden sensualist side. 

The scent of orange and lavender came from the bathroom, and he could see the steam roll out. The tap stopped and Q came out, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, rosy cheeked and bright-eyed, hair on his forehead damp from the steam. "Here," he whispered, moving to the bed. 

Bond watched as he approached silently and stopped right in front of him. Q folded and sat back on his shins before smiling gently at him. "I'm going to undress you now, James, and wash you. Okay?"

Bond brought his fingertips to Q's cheek, running them down, down, down to his neck and back to his temple, and the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips. Q allowed the touch with an indulgent smile and licked the whorls of Bond's fingertips before pushing the hand out of the way and shuffling closer.  
Q's hands found his belt, unbuckling it quickly and efficiently with a furrowed brow. Sliding it out slowly, he rolled it up and set it aside on the nightstand. 

He moved on to Bond's shoes. He put the right foot up onto his lap and untied the laces before taking the shoe off and setting it aside. He massaged Bond's foot gently while moving up to the ankle, where he grabbed the edge of the sock and pulled it down and off. He wadded that up and stuck it inside the shoe. With a final squeeze, he set the foot down and grabbed the other one. 

Bond hated ruining the moment, but he asked, "Are you drunk?"

The laugh that the comment got him was worth it, as Q paused in untying his shoe and bent over, chuckling softly. Looking up at Bond, he bit his lip and shook his head. "Not at all. Just the two glasses, after work."

Q couldn't hold his liquor, which amused Bond, but he could manage two meagre glasses of wine. "Then why-"

"Why lavish attention on you?" Q interrupted, absent-mindedly massaging Bond's socked foot. "Because I can. And you're exhausted, and deserve it."

"Do I," Bond murmured softly.

Q pouted as if deliberating seriously. It looked ridiculously childlike and endearing, from the low light. He nodded his head once, decisively. "Yes, you do. So I'm giving it to you. Relax, James. Let go. I've got you." He returned to defrocking Bond's foot with single minded determination, lip bit in concentration.

Bond closed his eyes and, like Q told him to, let go. He breathed deep, inhaling orange and lavender and feeling his muscles unclench as he exhaled. 

"That's it," Q praised gently, kissing his covered kneecap. "Better?"

Bond hummed, then tensed his abdomen as Q's fingers skated his flies. His eyes flew open and met the other man's, much closer now with the new angle. "What are you doing?"

Q huffed a breath, but his eyes twinkled in amusement. "Unless you want to take a bath in your trousers, I was in the middle of dealing with it."

"Oh." Bond smiled ruefully and shrugged. "Sorry, still buzzed from the trip." He said apologetically.

Q's hands rested against his ribs as he leaned in for a soft kiss. "I know," he murmured, pulling away. With another soft, sweetly wet kiss, he turned his attention to Bond's trousers. 

Despite himself, Bond felt the physical stirrings of arousal churn in his gut. Not enough for an erection, and certainly nothing intently _sexual_ , but there was something erotically sweet about all of this that before this moment, he wouldn't have attributed to the snarky Quartermaster he reported to. 

Q unzipped him and tapped the insides of his thighs. "Up," he commanded. When Bond stood a bit to allow him to slide the trousers off his thighs, Q smirked wickedly and began leaving open mouthed kisses. 

Bond wrapped his fingers in Q's hair, running them through the voluptuous, rioty mess. Q hummed in approval, nuzzling the insides of his thighs with a smile. 

"I thought this wasn't about sex," Bond teased as Q sucked small marks down one thigh and stroked up another with a hand. 

Q raised an eyebrow, and checked Bond's boxer brief clad groin. "Hmm, why, getting excited?"

Bond sucked it a breath as Q's fingers brushed lightly against his balls and retreated back to safe territory right above his knees. "How can I not?"

Q chuckled, moving down with his mouth to Bond's knees before lifting Bond's legs high enough to lavish the same attention to his shins. "Randy old man," he admonished lightly, propping his chin on Bond's knee and smiling softly at him. 

Bond blinked down at him. It hit him how beautiful Q was in that moment, soft lidded from wine and sultry attention, smiling indulgently at Bond. His hands were wrapped around his calfs, squeezing gently in a massage. Then, Q's brows furrowed as he and Bond maintained eye contact; Bond wondered what it was he saw reflected in Bond's face. 

Whatever it was, Q smiled brightly and moved his hands to the waistband of Bond's pants. He traced the line, just firm enough to avoid being ticklish, and grabbed the cloth. 

Bond made a move to stand, but Q's right hand shot out to his shoulder and stopped him. "No, not yet," Q whispered. 

Bond sat back, feeling Q skitter on the waistband to the back, fingers dipping in the dimples on Bond's back. His nails raked lightly, teasingly, as he leaned in to lick one of Bond's nipples before bursting out in soft laughter. 

"What? What's so funny?" Bond asked. 

Q chuckled for a while, before shrugging. "Nothing, I'm just… I'm just _enjoying_ this. It's been a while since I've bathed anyone."

"You were in the habit much, were you?"

Q hummed, moving back to kissing Bond's chest and playing with his waistband. "I enjoyed spoiling my partners, sometimes. Once or twice."

Bond inhaled sharply as Q bit his collarbone just on the border of pleasure and more into pleasure pain; he dug his fingers into Q's hair and tugged slightly. "Keep this up, and you won't get to."

"I thought you were too tired?" Q teased, but tapped Bond's thighs. Bond stood up completely and helped Q up as well. 

He asked, "Is that what this has been? An effort to wake me up?"

Q took the proffered hand and stood with leonine grace before framing Bond's face with his hands and kissing him deeply, wetly, and slowly. As he pulled back he whispered, "No. No, I wanted to do this for a long time now."

"Who are you, and what have you done with my Quartermaster?" Bond asked lightly, watching as Q slid his hands into Bond's pants and rubbed his covered flanks and squeezed his arse before sliding the fabric off. 

Q smiled. "I replaced him for the night. He's locked up in MI6, recharging his batteries."

"Mm, I knew he was a cyborg."

Q chuckled. "Government secret. You're just too bright. Nothing gets past you." He bent down, allowing Bond to hold onto his shoulders somewhat clumsily as he lifted first one leg and then the other. Q folded the pants and placed them next to the trousers. 

"Is that mockery I hear, Quartermaster?" Bond asked, reaching for him. 

Q embraced him back, tilting his head to give Bond access to his neck, which he readily took advantage of. "Me, mock you? Perish the thought," he replied huskily, squeezing Bond's nape as he left a light love bite. 

When Bond leaned back, Q kissed him softly, with open mouths but no tongue and moved down to suck his own brand on Bond's neck, light enough that it would disappear in a day or two. 

"There was a bath I was supposed to get to. I suppose it's gone cold," Bond murmured. However, he merely held Q tighter against him. 

Q grinned against his shoulder. "Actually, I never turned on the cold tap, so it should've cooled down to perfect temperature. I knew this would take a while; I don't like to rush."

Bond hummed lightly as Q's hands moved from his back to his chest and back again. His mouth followed no pattern, leaving closed mouthed pecks here, or sucking dark marks there. Just as Bond thought he had it figured out where hand and mouth would go, it switched up. But it was always soft, even the love bites. Tender and soft, like the piece he was playing as he walked in. Like the lamplight making Q's normally olive skin light gold and black hair an inky obsidian.

Christ, he was waxing poetic now.

Q pulled away, grabbing Bond's hand and leading him to the bath. "Come on. Temperature should be just right."

::

The water was, in fact, just right. Bond quirked a small smile at the candle set up, but couldn't help but tease Q by saying, "It's a bit much isn't it? And a fire hazard, at that."

Q laughed. "Sod off! It adds, I don't know, ambience."

"Ambience?" Bond exclaimed with a choked off laugh. He clutched his hands to his chest in an almost worryingly uncanny rendition of a swooning princess. " _Ambience_!"

Q slapped him on the shoulder half heartedly, trying and failing to masquerade his laughter with a wounded expression, but helped him in. 

"It's sizzling. Is water supposed to do that? And why aren't there bubbles, if it's a bubble bath?" Bond asked, settling in with a content groan. 

Q grabbed the bath mat, thrown over the towel heater and placed it next to him. He assumed the same position he had in the bedroom, folded over his shins. "I never said bubble bath; I threw in Epsom salts. Supposed to…" he reached out and grabbed the wrapper from where it had been tossed in the rubbish bin, "'invigorate and cleanse, with relaxing lavender scents for relaxation'. They repeated that twice. Marketing technique or flawed English, do you think?"

"'Invigorate and cleanse'?"

Q hummed, magicking a soft cloth flannel. "Yeah, kind of like an enema, but for your skin."

Bond grimaced. "Really? While I'm in the bath? Enema, seriously?"

"Look, it says it invigorates and cleanses skin, making it like new!" Q exclaimed, huffing in mock exasperation. He dipped the cloth in the sizzling water and wiped Bond's neck. He seemed distracted for a while, then said, "Of course, it can also be used to make tofu, so I don't-"

"That's it, I'm out of here," Bond said, making a move to kneel and stand, but Q moved lightning quick behind him and wrapped his arms around his chest, laughing softly. He murmured into the nape of Bond's neck, "Sorry! Sorry. Relax, come on, I do this all the time. It's calming, just don't think of tofu or enemas." 

Bond grumbled. "It's _your_ bloody fault I'm thinking of enemas in the first place."

Q huffed a breathy laugh and kissed Bond's neck, right on the patch below his ear where he liked it. "Just relax into it," he insisted softly, grabbing the flannel again. "I'm not halfway done here yet."

Bond let his head hang forward as Q dipped the flannel again and brought it to his suprasternal notch. He rubbed in small clockwise circles, moving down to wipe each clavicle. His lips danced around Bond's shoulder blades and the space between, alternating between teasing nips and broad licks. 

"You're gorgeous," Q whispered into Bond's hairline, nuzzling the fine hairs there and nipping the cartiledge of his left ear. "You really are."

"Course I am," Bond slurred good naturedly. 

Q chuckled. "And oh so modest," he added whilst moving back to the mat to continue running the flannel down his chest. He rubbed gently with the cloth peaked on his fingernail against Bond's left nipple, waited for it to harden, then leaned down to blow on it before sucking it into his mouth. 

Bond couldn't hold back his surprised exhalation, a soft susurrus of a moan bouncing off the walls and sounding louder as he ran his wet fingers through Q's hair. 

Q flicked the other nipple with the same covered fingernail until it hardened and then dislodged his mouth with a soft bite and a blow of cold air across his chest. 

He kissed up Bond's chest as he ran the flannel down, dipping it under water as he rubbed against Bond's abdomen and ribcage. 

Bond's cock, where it once was sleepily taking in the proceedings, now decided to waken, filling up in slow increments as Q sucked a brand onto the spot above his right nipple and on the bone of his shoulder. As their mouths met, Q ran the flannel around Bond's cock, but never touched his groin. The cloth skittered through both hipbones and lower abdomen muscles before jumping to the tops of his thighs. 

Q sucked Bond's upper lip, running the tip of his tongue around the philtrum and the vermillion border before dipping in with an indulgent moan. It sounded positively lewd as it echoed in the room. 

Q's hands stuttered to a stop as Bond framed his face with his wet hands and pulled him closer, tilting his head to go _deeper_ , opening his mouth a little _wider_ and placing his hand proprietarily on Q's nape, wrapping his middle finger and index around to lay on Q's neck. 

Finally, Q stopped the kiss with a small apologetic lick to the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, and a spot near his right jugular before leaning his head against Bond's shoulder and breathing in.  
"Christ," he sighed. "Christ." 

Bond kissed his temple and muttered, "No, it's just me," which helped quell the overwhelmed air Q was exuding by startling a laugh out of him. 

He pulled away and twisted his mouth wryly at Bond. "You're going to be the death of me one of these days."

Picking up the flannel again, Q stared at it for a while blankly, before blinking. "I'm too aroused to continue, actually. If I do, I might actually die."

Bond chuckled indulgently, moving from his reclined position to a crouch. "Well, then, come on, let's get dried up and move to the bedroom. Wasn't there a secret you had to tell me as well?"

Q shook his head. "Later. Tell you later." He must've seen something in Bond's face, because he smiled reassuringly and said,  
"It's nothing terrible, don't worry."

Bond stood from the bath, staring at his half hard erection with a mixture of remorse, exhaustion, and arousal. Q was looking at it with fond avarice. 

Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around Bond's shoulders and began rubbing him dry. Bond watched as he tracked the towel with warm eyes and a satisfied smile on his face. He wondered what the secret could be. 

In the mood Q was in, hazy and tender, Bond couldn't form an accurate guess. It could be something as innocent as "there's chocolate cake in the fridge from that bakery I like" to something bigger. 

Bond refused to think how big said parameters could get. This was all too… too loving for him.

Dry from the waist up, he stepped out onto the heated bath mat. Q kissed him once, a soft peck on the nose, before kissing both shoulders and moving down to his ribs and abdomen. Going down on his knees, he wrapped the towel around one muscular thigh and rubbed briskly as he bit into the hipbone, rubbing thigh to foot in slow, circular massaging motions.

He dried the burgeoning erection and testicles perfunctorily, not lingering even as he dried Bond's perineum and as far as the beginnings of his arsecrack where it met his thigh. 

He kissed the area above his groin with an open mouthed smear of lip and tongue as he moved to the other leg and bit into that hipbone as he dried the leg entirely, getting every crevice with heated relish.

"Turn around," he ordered huskily as he stood back up. "I'm going to dry your back."  
Q rubbed half circles down his back and flanks, grabbed fistfuls of Bond's cheeks in his hands and played with the muscle, humming contently to himself. 

Bond grinned. "Busy there?"

"Enjoying myself," Q corrected, brushing his hands, now free of the towel, down Bond's arse crack to the perineum, murmuring as Bond clenched in reflex before relaxing. Q did it once more before fleetingly brushing against Bond's balls and patting his shoulder. "Go wait for me, I've got to get something."

"If I lay down, I'm falling asleep, Q. This bath was too relaxing." 

Q kissed his shoulder blade. "I'm giving you a massage. This isn't about sex, James. Go lay down on your front; I'll be right there."  
Bond hummed. He accepted one last kiss on the nape of his neck before moving to the bedroom. 

He had an idea of where the evening was headed, and he wasn't exactly sure he was ready for it. 

::

Bond watched lazily from his position, sprawled out on top of the duvet, head padded by his left forearm as he watched Q's silhouette blow out candle by candle. 

Q appeared in the doorway of the bathroom, looking down at a lotion jar he had in his hand. When he looked back up at Bond, he stopped short and exhaled sharply. With a sinful grin, he said, "You're gorgeous like that, James. My god."

Bond smirked, and stretched, tensing his back muscles and thigh muscles, and by proxy his glutes, before melting back into the mattress. "There was talk about a massage, I believe."

Q tossed the jar in the air, catching it with a small hum. "Yes, something along those lines, I believe," he murmured, walking to the bed and kneeling. "I'm going to straddle you, and pour- what is this? Vanilla and honey massage oil all over your back and thighs, and then your chest, okay?"

"Sounds perfect," Bond purred, bringing his other arm around to rest his head on. "Get to it, masseuse."

The first touch of the oil surprised him so much, he twitched. "You warmed it."

Q hummed, straddling him and sitting on his thighs right below his arse. He poured some more along the length of his spine and left a pool in the dip of his back. The scent of honey wafted up to Bond's nostrils. Q said, "Water bath. Wax and massage oil, two things you should always heat before using."

Bond blinked before chuckling loudly. "You _wax_?"

"Oi," Q slapped his thigh hard enough to sting lightly. "I have an older sister. Growing up was hell; she was always running around dressing me up and making me her test dummy. That's how I know wax has to be heated up; Sarah waxed my legs without doing so."

Bond hissed sympathetically. "Poor baby."

Q breathed a laugh; Bond heard the sounds of him calling the jar. "I was scarred for life after that," Q agreed, tossing the jar aside.  
With a final crack of his knuckles, Q spread the oil around with his fingertips. Bond felt them like a paintbrush, fleeting touches and brushes that spread the aromatic oil around his back and shoulder blades. 

"You _do_ know how to give back massages, don't you?" Bond teased, once Q had spread the oil out sufficiently. 

"Shush, you," Q whispered, wriggling a little to get comfortable. "Just relax."

Bond inhaled deeply and let it out in one smooth roll of his shoulders. Q praised quietly, pressing his fingertips fleetingly to every knot on Bond's back before pressing firmly against the muscle. 

"Oh god," Bond groaned, feeling the tense muscle fight Q's press and roll of his knuckles before relaxing. "That feels good."

Q hummed, a breathy laugh, as his fingers moved to his neck and shoulders, gliding smoothly through the oil, and moving down along the spine. He spent time massaging the muscles of his lower back, pressing and squeezing and gliding in rhythmic movements, before moving to the fleshy mounds of his bare arse. 

Bond heard the second hum, before those hands squeezed and pushed and groped. He said, "Don't get distracted, now."

Q snorted. "You can't blame me. You're gorgeous, James, christ."

Those hands got back to massaging, moving down to the backs and sides of his thighs. Q was methodical, and slow, moving from thigh to back of knee to calf, until he shuffled and bent the leg slightly to get a better angle on Bond's feet. 

"You can control which muscles," Q said with a kiss to Bond's calf, "respond and relax by pressure points in the foot. Lucky for you, I know exactly which pressure points those are."

"Is that so?" Bond practically purred, feeling himself melt into the duvet as Q did something absolutely sinful with said pressure points. He could feel his arms turn to jelly. "It seems to be working."

Q didn't respond, merely punctuated the foot rub every so often with a sporadic kiss on his ankle or calf or thigh. 

Suddenly, Bond felt Q press a spot on his foot that made his groin feel tight. As Q stayed there, rubbing the spot in small circles, Bond could feel his dick filling out and Q smirk against the calf he was pressing his lips against.

"Q…" Bond warned. 

Q kissed the calf once, and said, "Turn over. Time to massage your front."

Bond was seriously starting to wonder what he got himself into. He got his answer when, as he turned over, Q straddled his waist again and grabbed the tin with a confident smirk. He bent to kiss Bond, sucking gently on his tongue and moaning gently before pulling away with a grin. He whispered against Bond's lips, "Did I mention it's edible?"

Bond stared with a stunned face as Q tipped the liquid out and watched with fascination as it pooled in the space between Bond's pectoral muscles. Q ran a line down Bond's front with the oil until it stopped right at the crease where groin met abdomen. 

Q's hands spread on Bond's chest, pinkies resting just above each nipple. With slow circles, he rubbed the oil onto his chest, stomach, sides, and arms. Bond hissed as Q mixed luxurious pats and gliding with sharp scrapes of his nails and flicks on his nipples.  
He shuffled down until he was straddling Bond's calves. Bond's cock was now irrefutably, extremely interested. But Q, the little minx, merely glanced at it with a pleased smirk and dipped his fingers into the oil, waiting until the excess dripped off before resting on Bond's thighs. He rubbed the liquid soothingly into the skin with precision before sticking his fingers into his mouth and licking off some of it. 

Bond's cock twitched. Q didn't miss it. 

"Easy," Q soothed, thumbs circling Bond's hips. "I'll get there."

Bond hummed, then hissed in a breath as Q stiffened with tongue and licked with the tip from kneecap to the crease of his groin, avoiding his cock and balls. He sucked a bruise on the hipbone and blew on the abused skin, sending tingles down to Bond's cock at the paradoxal sensations. 

"Q…" His voice sounded strained now. 

The huff of breath against his naval sounded amused. "Impatient," Q admonished, dipping his tongue into Bond's belly button. He kissed his way up Bond's chest and paused at Bond's nipple, taking it into his mouth with a contented hum.

Bond dug his fingers into Q's hair, tugging gently the way he knew Q liked; he was rewarded with Q purring as he flattened his tongue against the peaked nipple before biting it. 

Q pulled forward to put pressure against the locks for a brief second before leaning back to look at him. He smiled lazily, like the cat that got the cream and said, "Utterly gorgeous. Just… truly stunning."

Bond huffed, lacing his hands behind his head. He tried not to squirm. He got compliments all the time, but hearing them with the sort of awe present in Q's voice, it was disconcerting. Not in a bad way, just a way Bond wasn't ready to analyse. 

He had closed his eyes, which was why the drizzle of heated aromatic oil on his cock made him jump suddenly and glare at Q, who gave him a wicked grin. 

He poured it on his cock, and his balls, and Bond felt the ticklish, slightly uncomfortable feeling of the drops running down to his perineum and pooling on the sheets below. 

Q capped the tin and bent over Bond to place it on the nightstand, where he placed his glasses as well. He looked down at Bond with an impish smile and shuffled lower to kiss him. 

Bond felt Q's palm rest against his cock and begin spreading the oil around, running down his shaft and cupping his balls before spreading it below on his perineum and just before reaching his arse. 

When the oil was spread enough and Bond moaning in pleasure as Q pumped up with the right pressure and rubbed Bond's fraenulum and head with his thumb before dipping in the slit and collecting the precome to lubricate his cock further, Q moved down to his neck. 

The stroking never stopped, but it was at a maddeningly slow pace, and Q's small flicks with his tongue against his neck and clavicle and chest only served to get Bond tense with anticipation. 

"Q…" He groaned, tugging on his hair with one hand and practically ripping the sheets with the other. 

Q stopped sucking a mark below his collarbone with a huff. He pressed his forehead against Bond's chest and inhaled deeply. "Yeah," he whispered harshly. "Yeah, I will," he continued incoherently. 

With that, he pressed one last kiss on Bond's sternum and moved down gracelessly to ogle Bond's cock. 

It was slow motion, watching Q open his mouth and unfold his tongue, before he bent down and licked up. He exhaled heavily as he pressed on the shaft with the flat of his tongue, then pursed his lips in a filthy open mouthed kiss around his head as his tongue stiffened and drew across his slit. He sucked the precome with a breathy moan, and Bond wondered distantly how that must've tasted: vanilla and precome. 

He pressed open mouthed kisses down his cock and pressed his tongue into the crease where cock met balls, before nipping and mouthing the loose skin. He bent further to lick his perineum and went as far as to broaden a stroke of his tongue down Bond's cleft, before licking the same path on the way up. 

Q glanced up and met his eyes before taking Bond to the hilt and swallowing twice in quick procession. Bond tightened his hold as  
Q hummed in appreciation around him, before pressing his cock firmly between the roof of his mouth and his tongue and pulling up. 

His hands moved from Bond's hips to his balls, caressing and rolling as he repeated the motions, until Bond thrusted up. 

Q gagged with the suddenness, but smirked around him and moved his hands from his balls to his arse, pressing him further into his mouth. 

"Fuck," Bond hissed, thrusting again. 

Q hummed, meeting his eyes for a second before one hand moved down to his perineum. 

As Bond thrust up, Q pressed with his knuckle and stroked Bond's balls with his thumbs. His tongue stroked and licked as best he could with the strength of each surge upwards. 

Q suckled, and pushed, and moaned, and Bond could feel it all as if through a haze of treacle, slow motioned and thick. 

His orgasm seemed to come from his very soul, warmth spreading in his lower back and groin, legs tensing and toes tingling, balls tightening against Q's thumb and fingers, abdomen flexing. Q moved the hand caressing his sac and placed it back on his arse, feeling the way Bond's cock swelled and twitched in impending release. 

He felt Q swallow around him as he came hard with a low groan that never seemed to leave his chest. Swallow, suck, swallow, suck, until Bond tugged his hair. 

"Oversensitive," he murmured, dragging Q up to kiss him deeply. "You're too good at that."

Q grinned, kissing him again and settling to curl around him. He reached out blindly to turn off the lamp and as the room grew dark, threw a hand around Bond. 

Bond frowned. "What about the secret?"

Q hummed sleepily. "Oh, that. Mmm. You already know."

So it was what Bond suspected. He sighed. 

"Q, I can't-"

"No, no. Shut up," Q interrupted with a sharp poke to his side. "I know. Believe me, I know. I tried to tell myself all of that while you were gone, but you know what?"

Bond felt him shuffle and prop himself up on his elbow. There was a cool hand pressed to his cheek, turning his unwilling head around before Q kissed him. Again and again, small little open mouthed kisses until Bond opened his mouth against him and allowed him passage. 

Q grinned as he broke up the kiss and whispered, "'I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without completions or pride-"

"Q, please stop."

"'So I love you because I know no other way than this…" He kissed Bond's temple before continuing, "'Where I do not exist, nor you, so close that your hand…" he grabbed Bond's hand where it curled on Q's hip and kissed his fingers, "on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.'"

There was a silence where Bond tensed with bated breath, but Q merely grinned. He scolded, "So you can't tell me to _stop_ , because it's not that simple. I'm quite far gone. And it's fine if you don't feel the same yet, because you're here, with me now. And that's all I can hope for. Time with you. So sleep, James, and we'll wake up tomorrow, make coffee, be absolutely lazy, and I'll love you and it'll be fine."

Bond watched as Q laid back down, completely confident and without worry about Bond blowing up in an emotionally inept way, or leaving the bed and the flat and leaving Q's life. He wasn't worried about any of that, shuffling closer and tucking his head under Bond's chin.

And Bond wouldn't. He wasn't so callous that he'd just leave after Q bared his heart in his hands and decided to share himself with Bond in that way. And that's what Q did, however confidently. He showed Bond his absolute love for him, and trusted Bond to, at the very least, stay with him that night and the nights following. 

He knew Bond didn't feel as strongly, but he would wait for Bond to. He didn't demand reciprocation, merely acceptance that he couldn't change the way Q felt. Had felt for a while, apparently.

And if nothing else, Bond would stay. That night, and all the nights he could. It wasn't love, not yet. He didn't know if it could ever be love. But for that night, for these moments where Bond smelled like vanilla and lavender and felt utterly relaxed after a mission that left him feeling old and abused, after Q's piano and massage and poetry…  
Bond tightened his hold and kissed Q's temple, feeling Q's small smile on his shoulder. 

It didn't need to be said. Bond would stay, and they would wake up and make coffee and raspberry cranberry pancakes that had become Q's favourites, and they would laugh and kiss and sleep and Q would probably play some more piano while Bond lounged on the sofa. 

No, he didn't love Q. But he adored Q, in his own way, and that was enough for now, for both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Moral of the story, don't take more than three tequila shots _after_ you've been drinking hard liquor and vodka. Just don't do it.
> 
> This is out of character, but I was out of character, so excuse the inexcusable. 
> 
> Poem Q recites like a smooth as fuck Casanova is Pablo Neruda's sonnet xvii.


End file.
